


Earth

by sophiahelix



Series: Elements [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Virgin Katsuki Yuuri, st petersburg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 06:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11549544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix
Summary: Victor touches Yuuri again, less delicate now. He slides the flat of his hand over Yuuri’s broad thigh and then clasps it, fingers curving around the columned muscle to tuck into the taut, warm crevice beyond. Yuuri’s skin is damp here, thin and sensitive, and Victor drums his fingertips to make Yuuri shudder once more.“I want you to ask me for something,” Victor says.(series complete)





	Earth

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so pleased to be finally posting this long-delayed last installment; I've been working on it nearly every day for four months, first writing and then doing heavy editing work. Huge thanks to shdwsilk and someitems for beta and discussing the story with me, when it seemed like I had so many ideas in my head that I was struggling to express.
> 
> The end notes have more info about some of the things I mention in the story. My research has definitely made me want to visit St Petersburg! I've also made [a playlist](https://playmoss.com/en/sophiahelix/playlist/elements) of some of the music I listened to while writing this series, and the tracks are listed in the end notes as well.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's followed this series, and I'm excited to be free to work on some new fic for this fandom. :)

Yuuri comes back down, breathing hard, and Victor keeps a little space between their bodies. Yuuri doesn't like to be held much, after. It's hard to look at him and not touch but Victor does it, resting on his side with an arm curled beneath his head. Yuuri sprawls on his back, beautiful and spent. He's sweaty to the ends of his dark hair, legs loose and spread wide, a slight frown on his brow. His lips part as he breathes, satiated but dissatisfied.

Victor won tonight.

They haven't skated against each other yet. Russian Nationals was a stretch, after being out of training so long, and though he qualified for Worlds it came at the cost of his troublesome left achilles. Victor, reluctantly, withdrew. Yuuri took bronze, and Victor could almost hear the grinding of Yurachka’s teeth on the second step as the Canadian anthem played. Victor watched from the stands and chewed over his own painful thoughts; whether he'd lost his edge; whether his body was giving way to age; whether the Russian anthem had played its last notes for him.

As spring crept through St Petersburg, they eased into a new competition, one that perhaps matters more. Victor has found that Yuuri can _last_. He holds out all evening, heels driven into the bed, clutching at the sheets and pillows as he arches up, twisting and resisting. Victor’s never seen anything like it and it moves him tremendously; how Yuuri wills himself to stay on the edge, lips bitten ruddy, gasping for breath but never giving in until the alarm rings.

Except tonight, he did. Hands clamped to the headboard, hips rising off the bed, muscled thighs straining under Victor’s hands, he gave way with a soft, aching cry that shot through Victor, who swallowed almost in surprise at that hot, sudden vibrance. The volatile, unexpected surrender.

And now Yuuri’s turned away, arm resting across his eyes and a deep, painful flush spreading over his heaving chest. Victor ventures a caress. One finger, drawn delicately over Yuuri’s ribs, rise after dip after rise, smoothing the tautness of his belly below. Yuuri reacts to it, flinching, but doesn't stop him. 

The silver bedside clock ticks into the breathy silence of the room, sharp, and then the alarm chimes at last. Victor stretches to turn it off, a reminder of his success, and the silence seems magnified.

“What do you want?” Yuuri asks, at last.

His voice is hoarse, rough-layered with exhaustion. Not long ago he was sobbing for air, desperate tension cresting in him as he pulled Victor’s hair to the point of pain. Victor squeezed his eyes against the tears starting and stuck to his work; loving Yuuri and making it perfect, too good to last.

He's never loved anyone as fully as this before. He’s known a moment’s desire; an afternoon of pleasure or a string of evenings, stretched over the course of years. Victor has had lovers, many of them. It seems obscene now, though, to use that word so lightly, as if the act of love were the same as the feeling.

He loves to love Yuuri. But this is different, these afternoons of sweat and strain, following a hard practice like they’re another part of the work. Yuuri’s opponent is always himself but he's fighting Victor too, the release Victor wants to give him, _win_ from him. It's almost reward enough, just to feel Yuuri letting himself have it.

Almost.

Victor touches Yuuri again, less delicate now. He slides the flat of his hand over Yuuri’s broad thigh and then clasps it, fingers curving around the columned muscle to tuck into the taut, warm crevice beyond. Yuuri’s skin is damp here, thin and sensitive, and Victor drums his fingertips to make Yuuri shudder once more.

“I want you to ask me for something,” Victor says.

This is the first time he's won in a long while. The few forfeits he’s demanded were easy, predictable; an extra hour of ice time, taking Maccachin for his evening walk. Only the last time, weeks ago, did he ask for something more, and since then he hasn't stopped thinking about Yuuri’s mouth on him, or the steady pressure of Yuuri’s slender hands, the flicker of his eyelashes as he tried not to look up. 

Yuuri was hesitant at first, awkward, but the natural grace of his body made his movements sweet as he found his own rhythm. Slower than Victor wanted, a slippery spiral down, until every breath felt like a weight and his fingers carved into Yuuri’s bare shoulders. He watched the stretch of Yuuri’s lips, the bulge in his cheek and the wetness on his chin, and it was unbearable, somehow, to see him like this, his body affected by Victor’s. The physical reality of it, that Yuuri had come so far, changed so much.

Now Yuuri is watching him, eyes barely half-open. Without his glasses they’re dark and removed, and Victor can tell he's thinking. He's not sure what.

Finally, Yuuri licks his lips. “OK,” he says. “Tomorrow, I will.”

Like that, the tension eases in the room. Victor lets out a long exhale, smiling, and rolls onto his back, stretching his arms over his head. He finished already, rocking against the mattress as he teased the pleasure out of Yuuri, and they'll both need to shower soon. He finds himself wanting to hold onto the mess, though; the delicious traces of this afternoon. The evidence of the love they've made.

Yuuri doesn't seem to feel the same, because he's the first one to rise. He likes the water hotter than Victor does, the result of a life lived in steam rooms and volcanic springs, and he's been cold ever since he came to Russia, Victor knows. He lets Yuuri shower alone now, scalding his skin pink, and studies the faint patterns of the ceiling.

He thinks about the last time he waited for Yuuri to make a decision. He was choosing for himself then, too; whether to stay in this new life or to seek out his old one, struggling to find a place in between. They’d said they'd make their own decisions, but he hadn't, not really. It was unthinkable for Yuuri to leave skating, just when he'd given it new meaning for Victor, and coming back seemed like the only way to keep him.

He wonders what Yuuri will ask for. If he’ll finally, fully, understand that, however it seems, Victor is in command of himself only. That all Yuuri has to do is ask.

This has always been between them, since their very first time in bed. Yuuri’s hidden, whiplash passion that snaps itself up as quick as it came, straining to unfurl again. He wants so brightly it burns. The wide beam of his desire has narrowed, and there was a winter night when Yuuri asked Victor for something but turned him aside half-begun, new confidence in his voice. Victor doesn't know what Yuuri sensed — his clumsy hesitation, even as he wanted to be everything Yuuri needed — but there was commanding fire in Yuuri’s eyes and it seemed the tide had finally broken.

And then it washed out again, leaving mist and seawrack behind, ghosts of memory. Things changed between them, as their first competition neared, and even after Victor withdrew it continued; this tense duel with the quality of a held, laughing breath, Yuuri’s eyes full of bright challenge. Like what matters most is what he can win from Victor.

The faucet squeaks as Yuuri finishes his shower. Victor waits for him to come out, wrapped loosely in a robe and toweling off his hair, before he gets up from the bed. 

“Will you order dinner?” Victor asks, approaching.

Yuuri groans, because his Russian is still halting and basic. “Yes, but you have to eat whatever I get by mistake.”

Victor leans in to kiss him on the cheek, soft and damp still. Yuuri leans into it, but doesn't kiss him back.

When Victor gets out, Yuuri has ordered piroshki for him and salad with chicken for himself. It pains Victor, watching Yuuri pick away at dull food when he knows just how deep his appetite is, but he's proud of how seriously Yuuri is taking this offseason. In the fall, they'll be competitors on the ice, too.

They pass the evening quietly. Victor watches a movie on television and Yuuri is absorbed in his phone, the light shining opaquely off his glasses. Maccachin lies on their legs, covered with a cashmere throw, and it's peaceful and warm in the room. Victor dozes off to the movie, and finally wakes to Yuuri’s toes pushing against his thigh, sharp. 

Maccachin is gone and the television is off, leaving no light in the room. “Victor,” Yuuri says, low. “It’s time for bed.”

They don't fit very well on Victor’s couch, their legs tucked and folded around each other, and they get up slowly, carefully, touching all the while. Yuuri pulls Victor to his feet with ease, holding onto his hands. Victor sways in the darkness for a moment and then steadies himself instead, letting go and balancing his arms wide. 

Sometimes it's hard, having someone else here in his home.

Yuuri is so solid and real to him now, a person more subtle and varied than he could have imagined. Victor has friends, but he has never known anyone in the way he knows Yuuri. The depths and the heights; the fear that's kept Yuuri apart for so long; the pattern of life so different from Victor’s own. Nothing like the loose, laughing boy a year ago, making Victor ask “ _who was that?_ ” stunned and faint, and yet that's truly the heart of him, in some other life.

Yuuri doesn't ask for anything when he wins in bed. His prize seems to be winning itself, the flushed triumph on his face when the clock chimes and he's still holding out, his strength dominating Victor’s skill. Victor loves to see that joy in him, and it's no hardship to lose when it's Yuuri’s happiness that's won.

It's different when Victor wins. Yuuri is complicated and withdrawn then, sullen and silent. He's the Yuuri from Hasetsu last year, doubting and diminished, diffident. His emotions are so present, spacious, it’s difficult for Victor not to feel everything he does.

Tonight Victor senses the fire in him. They kiss, moving sure through the hall and less sure into the bedroom, bumping against the door frame. Yuuri holds him there for a moment, pressing quick, biting kisses that seem like he's letting something wild and fierce go free.

Victor lets him. Yuuri unbound is a beautiful thing, here in the dark. He lets Yuuri take him to bed, for the second time today; lets him loosen his clothes and push him, not so gently, back onto the sheets. 

Their hands know their way, now. A familiar position, the choreography of bodies; a knee here and an elbow there, lips sliding together. Yuuri could do this again and again. Victor needs more time, after spending himself in glory earlier, and he doesn't think he’ll rise to the occasion but he does, the needful spark in Yuuri kindling an echo in him. 

The loss hangs between them, unbalanced. There's something distant and reserved about Yuuri’s kisses, now that they're in bed. It feels like it did last year, the banked heat of his desire burning low and the shape still unknown. He's holding back, and Victor hates that, wherever they are. He can't change it, though, can only let Yuuri untangle himself, becoming glorious and wonderful on his own.

Victor finishes slowly, straining for it, panting with relief after. He holds Yuuri’s face cupped in his palm and kisses him like he's drinking water, cool and sweet. Then he lets his hand caress the curves of Yuuri’s body, finding the heat, and Yuuri shivers in his arms. 

It's a white night in St Petersburg. Victor has blackout curtains everywhere but a little light creeps in, a slice of summer-late sunset lying across the bed. Yuuri hasn't slept well these past few weeks, like when he first came to Russia. It's not displacement now but the light; Victor catches him at the window in the early hours, staring out at the illuminated fog that keeps all the city awake and alive in June. 

“Shall we see the scarlet sails tomorrow night?” Victor murmurs, as he strokes Yuuri.

Yuuri makes a soft, questioning noise, against his neck. Victor smiles.

“We’ll crowd down at Nevsky Prospekt with everyone else,” he whispers. “Fireworks and ships on the river. It's loud and beautiful and too much, you'll love it.”

Yuuri lets out another soft sound, a sigh, and his fingertips bite into Victor’s shoulder. “Don't tease me.”

Victor tucks his smile into the curve of Yuuri’s neck. He's teasing himself, if anything.

He makes it quick for Yuuri, though, pushing him over the edge with a flick of his wrist. Yuuri kisses him when it happens, shuddering and breathless, open, and the distance between them eases. Yuuri doesn't like to fall asleep messy but he does tonight, his hand still resting on Victor’s chest. It's rare for him to sleep this close, and Victor shuts his eyes and keeps him here, as long as he can.

The distance grows again, at the rink the next day. It always does. Victor has to be two people, skater and coach, speaking English one moment and Russian the next, and this is so much harder than he thought it would be. He tries not to follow Yuuri with the corner of his eye while he skates himself but it's impossible; making a choreographer’s correction to a step sequence, criticizing a jump rotation with a coach’s eye, lavishing a lover’s glance on the tilt of Yuuri’s head and the breadth of his shoulders, above his slender waist. 

Yakov shouts at him, again and again. He has any number of people to look after himself and Victor wonders how he does it, stretching to be so much to so many. Georgi is jealous of his return, Victor knows, but he gets his turn like the rest. Yakov is better at love than he seems.

Just before lunch Victor finds Yuuri, stopping before him with a spray of snow and tossing his hair back with a grin. It's been more than a year and he's still delighted every time he sees Yuuri, a hot blossoming happiness that overwhelms him. Yuuri is turning to put away a bottle of water, and when he looks back Victor sees the frozen hesitation in his eyes for one moment, before he blinks it away.

He doesn't want to break Yuuri, but it seems like it always has to be this way. Pushing until the glass shatters, until the flood that changes everything, letting them carry on new and clean.

“You’re under-rotating the flip,” Victor says, cheerfully.

Yuuri frowns, but it's a good, pure irritation, open and equal. They can always argue about skating. “I know. You said to focus on the loop today.”

“Focus on them both!” Victor says, and grins again.

After lunch he's Yuuri’s coach, and they work until his flip is perfect. Victor changes the portion of the step sequence that didn't flow, and Yuuri grumbles but does it beautifully, head bent back and arms outflung. His body is so expressive, Victor never stops wondering how he didn't see it before. All the years when Yuuri was racing after him, circling the ice, and Victor saw only the podium and his own reflection.

They thought he was selfish, he's learned. His break stunned the skating world not so much for his absence but because of the reason; Victor Nikiforov, putting his own career on hold to help another. It aches at him, nagging, because it was both true and untrue. He _was_ selfish, because that focus was what it took to share his full self with the world, his best self back then. But he and Yuuri are both learning to be better at love.

Yuuri’s quiet on the tram ride after practice, thinking. Victor is too. There's a hushed tension in the air, something pulling tight between them, not yet formed. He’ll have to wait for Yuuri to work it through.

They eat dinner at a small restaurant, and then join the crowds filling the streets along the canals. Some people have been here for days, waiting for the closest spots along the river, but Victor’s seats are always on a reserved platform. They wander beneath bright cloudy skies, down towards the banks of the Neva, and he puts an arm over Yuuri’s shoulders to keep him close.

“What is this again?” Yuuri asks, frowning. “A graduation ceremony? With all these people?”

He looks perplexed by the enormous crowds, and Victor smiles, squeezing his shoulder. “Yes, but it's much more than that! Didn't I tell you the story of the Scarlet Sails?”

Yuuri shakes his head, still with that puzzled frown. He's smiling now, though, as the strain of the long day fades from them both. Victor pulls him up a set of stone stairs, speaking low in his ear. 

“It's a fairy tale, written not long after the revolution. A young girl follows her toy boat along a stream, where she meets a man who says he's a powerful wizard. He tells her that one day a ship will sail into the harbor, flying scarlet sails, and captained by a prince who will take her away and fulfill her heart’s desire.”

Victor feels Yuuri smile, shaking his head slightly. “Everything’s always perfect in fairy tales.”

“Not so!” Victor says. “She's the daughter of a poor toy-maker, living in a poor town. Do you think people believe her? No, little Assol is teased for years after by the village children. They think she's a half-wit, chasing after dreams.”

“And then her prince comes.”

Victor draws back, looking at Yuuri. He seems tired, distant, gazing off towards the river. Somewhere in the street below a firecracker goes off, illuminating his face with a sudden flare. The screen of clouds gives a strange luminescence to everything, but the light of the firecracker is sharp, burning hot and fading as fast as it came.

Victor tilts his head and takes a step backwards, up the stairs, catching Yuuri’s hands in his. Yuuri frowns, starting, and then follows him, dropping one hand to let Victor turn and ascend. They go up together, just steps apart, until they reach the velvet ropes of the reserved platform. Victor nods at someone who lets them through, and they thread through rows of chairs to the stone balustrade above the dark water, squeezing in among the well-heeled crowds.

Yuuri looks around, color rising in his face. “I didn't realize — you should have told me. I would have dressed better.”

“You're dressed wonderfully,” Victor says, pulling him close again. It isn't true, but there's no point in regretting it now. “My prince.”

The color flares brighter in Yuuri’s cheeks and his eyes widen, but Victor sees his jaw tighten as he swallows. “Assol’s prince finally came?”

Victor smiles, shaking his head. “A wealthy young sea captain finds her sleeping by the shore and falls in love. When he hears her story, he buys up all the red silk in town to make her destiny come true. Then he steers his boat into the village harbor flying scarlet sails, and carries Assol off to fulfill her heart’s desire.”

Yuuri frowns again. “That doesn't sound like a good way to begin a romance, without even speaking to each other first.”

Victor bursts out laughing, leaning back against the stone rail. “You're missing the point. Every June, the schools in St Petersburg tell the story to the graduates, reminding them to work hard and win their dreams.”

Now Yuuri makes a face. “Work hard? All she did was wait for someone rich to come solve her problems.”

“Not very good communist principles,” Victor admits. “I think it’s really the red sails that kept the story alive under the Soviets.”

“Maybe they mean the sea captain,” Yuuri says, staring off at the river again. It's crowded with small craft, each hung with lights and jammed with people, and every bridge and embankment is filled with more crowds awaiting the show. “He took a fairytale and made it real. That was hard work.”

“Mm,” Victor says, watching him. “Maybe.”

Yuuri bites his lower lip, and Victor looks down to see his fingers tight on the balustrade, white at the joints. There's a fierceness about him, a contained heat that makes Victor hold his breath, wondering what’s coming. A long moment passes, and then another, and finally Yuuri lets out a loud exhale and turns to Victor.

“Do they serve drinks up here?”

They do, and Yuuri downs a couple of fizzy cocktails before they return to the railing. Victor sticks to water. The show is beginning with a mock ship battle, and recorded music fills the air, too loud to talk. Slowly the light fades from the clouds, until they're standing above the dark river dotted with glinting boat lights as the parade goes on below.

There's a dizzy, dreamlike quality to the night, like every year. The hum of voices, music, glass, firecrackers, water, laughter; the smell of St Petersburg, exhaust and perfume, creosote and tobacco, salt and tar; the faded arch of the misty sky echoing the curved stone bridges; the press of the crowd; the bright moving sparks in the dimness; the magnitude of it. And Yuuri is here, with him, surprising and present as ever, holding all his attention.

Victor moves to take Yuuri’s hand. He sees Yuuri draw in a breath, and he doesn't look back but his fingers close around Victor’s, tight. Victor watches him watch the show, the lights reflecting onto his face as he takes it in. Fireworks pop and spray on the far side of the river and the music swells, heralding the end of the procession, but Victor doesn't take his eyes off Yuuri. 

He loves to watch him when Yuuri knows he's looking. There's a vivacity that comes into Yuuri’s face, a slow delicate flush, and his eyes are bright as they flick across the river, following the boats. Yuuri likes being looked at, and tonight is no different.

The scarlet sails tint his face when the ship comes into harbor. There's a murmur of appreciation around them, uniform staccato clapping, but Victor doesn't look. He can see Yuuri is breathing fast, pale cheeks glowing in the flood of red light. The music is loud now, quivering strings and triumphant vocals, and Victor glances away at last to see the ship at full sail, proud and bright. 

He moves closer, enough to breathe into Yuuri’s ear. “See, fairytales do come true.”

Yuuri draws in a breath and squeezes his hand. “With a lot of work.”

Victor turns, brushing his nose against Yuuri’s cheek. Hard work is what he loves about Yuuri, and the way he believes in fairytales even though he pretends he doesn't. The faith and fire that drew Victor to him from the start.

He brushes his lips over Yuuri’s temple now, his ear. He can feel Yuuri turning toward him, forgetting the ships below, the play of water and light. Yuuri’s hands glide up his chest, seeking his shoulders and holding fast. 

Victor drops his forehead against Yuuri’s, lightly. “I love to watch you work.”

He feels the shuddering breath Yuuri takes in, the way he pushes the air back out. The tension that's been simmering all day flares up hot between them, and the blood creeps into Victor’s face, down the back of his neck. 

Yuuri moves his hands to cup beneath Victor’s jaw, thumbs stroking. “Let's go home,” he whispers, under the music.

They walk most of the way. The streets are full of people and Victor can tell that Yuuri feels like he does, giddy and light, unreal. They hold hands and they don't talk, gliding through the crowds. Victor loves these long stone streets, the canals and the wires above, and the smoky night, joyful and wild. Young people push past them, running and laughing, and Victor loves being a part of this every year, the happy headlong rush into something new.

There's a waiting tram on one corner, and they clank back up to Victor’s building, tucked together on one seat. He has the keys but Yuuri goes up the stairs first, not looking back. Victor watches him go, his steps slow and determined, his dark head held high. On the landing, Victor reaches around him to unlock the door, leaning his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri sighs, tipping his head back, and takes Victor’s arm to wrap around his waist. 

Victor holds him, tightly. Yuuri’s body always feels like some slender, strong thing poised to take flight, arrowing away from him, and he’s shivering now through his coat, though the night is mild. 

This feeling, this place, is familiar. He's pushed Yuuri before, gently or not so gently. Now he only waits, holding Yuuri tight, steady, as Yuuri takes in shallow breaths, swallowing air. Victor turns his head to press his lips against Yuuri’s neck, soft and wet, and Yuuri gasps, jerking in his arms. He turns sharply, pulling Victor with him as he leans back against the door.

Victor lets the kiss be desperate, following Yuuri where he goes. He's not above this. He can't be. Every moment with Yuuri is vital, raw, a throbbing pulse just beneath the surface. He feels weighed with a purpose now, like everything matters in a way it never has. Responsibility, desire, and above all — love.

So he kisses Yuuri deeply, as Yuuri pulls him close. Yuuri rakes his fingers through Victor’s hair, taking gasping breaths against his mouth. Victor can feel him trembling, a frantic heat burning through him, and makes his kisses slower, luxuriating in the softness of Yuuri’s lips, gentling him down. Yuuri is a spark alight, too ready to catch fire everywhere, and for now Victor just holds him with the strength of his body, the force of his kiss.

Yuuri reaches back, fumbling at the handle of the door until they fall into the darkness of the flat. Victor catches him, holding him upright, still sipping kisses from his mouth. 

“Victor,” Yuuri sighs, hands restless over the front of Victor’s shirt. His thumbs brush Victor’s throat. 

“What do you want,” Victor whispers, slipping his fingertips into the waistband of Yuuri’s trousers, where his skin is hot and smooth.

Yuuri goes rigid all over, his fingers tight on Victor’s shoulders. He kisses Victor again, cupping his face, but now it's fierce and frustrated. Victor knows this tension, the way Yuuri gets when he can't say what he feels. Victor doesn't want to say it for him, doesn't want to lose the ground they've gained together, but he leans toward the bedroom.

Yuuri takes his lead. Step after step, through the dark, moving as they did last night except the fire is right below the surface now, a dangerous heat. In the bedroom, Yuuri pushes Victor’s coat off and tugs at his collar. Victor lets him, lets him. He pulls at the baggy fabric of Yuuri’s sweater and the tight zip of his trousers. Yuuri’s mouth is hot and wanting at his collarbone and Victor holds him there, fingers locked in the silky darkness of his hair. 

They breathe.

In the cool air of Victor’s room, the fire recedes some. He presses a finger to the pulse under Yuuri’s jaw as they kiss, feeling the shush of blood there. The bed is made up with only sheets, still rumpled from this morning, and Victor stretches out along the smooth white expanse, pulling Yuuri with him.

Now they share each other’s air, their mouths scarcely touching. All Yuuri’s hot strength rests on him, lean and powerful, made for movement, and Victor brushes their lips together, still open-mouthed. 

“What do you want,” he asks again, a whisper.

Yuuri groans, soft and pained. Victor strokes his hair and doesn't look away. Yuuri’s eyes shine darkly and the bedside clock ticks, heavy and polished, each sound a silver heartbeat.

“You,” Yuuri breathes, at very long last. “I want — I want to be inside you.”

Victor has waited all spring for those words, and yet it’s like ice melting, water running everywhere, cold and shocking. He runs his fingers through Yuuri’s hair again and leans up from the pillow to press a kiss to Yuuri’s lips, his heartbeat stifling and strong in his chest.

The years roll back before him. The convivial evenings, everything friendly and easy in bed. The earlier years, and Ilya, and Vadim, men who mattered though he acted like they didn't. Doing things that mattered though he acted like they didn't. His long hair in his face, laughing, young and callous and so much softer than he seemed or even knew.

He wants to do those things for Yuuri. He wants to do everything with Yuuri, and that's never frightened him as much as it should. It's always been friendly and easy and inevitable, and it's mattered so very much.

“Yes,” Victor whispers softly, and kisses him again, softer than that.

Yuuri is shaking above him, in his arms. The kisses he takes from Victor seem like something essential, as he snatches desperate little breaths between. Victor opens for him, letting the balance shift at last, easing into needing Yuuri this way.

And oh, Victor does want this; to lie beneath Yuuri, giving him his breath and his kisses, easing his legs apart to let Yuuri settle into the cradle of his hips; and yet his hands tremble on Yuuri’s back, fingers spread between the round knobs of his spine. It feels like everything is shifting water now, swirling currents of air as they gasp against each other’s mouths, mutable flames rippling out from the hot places where their bodies touch. Sometimes, Victor hardly knows who he is anymore. But he holds fast to Yuuri, and thinks he can be solid and real for him.

“In the drawer,” he whispers to Yuuri, and adds “please” in Russian, because Yuuri likes that. _Пожалуйста, pozhaluista_ , Yuuri used to mutter around the house, learning, and flushed deep the first time Victor said it to him in bed. 

Now Yuuri leans over to open the drawer, shifting his weight. Victor listens to him search, and it seems like the world is tilting, sliding down into soft warm darkness. He feels the throb of his heart in his throat as Yuuri straightens up, moving down the bed. 

Yuuri’s _face_. It's dim in the room but he sees it all; every time Yuuri clenched his jaw and fought through spirits unseen, the struggle that's always inside him, distant and foreign to Victor. But Victor feels an echo of turmoil himself now, an anxious electricity in his body as Yuuri touches him. He thinks, suddenly, that there was strength in his old solitude, and safety in rising above, alone.

Victor draws a heavy breath. It rushes through his chest, the pressure of cool air a solid thing as Yuuri lowers his head, eyes still wide and watching. There's a caught, dazzled moment and then Victor has so much of Yuuri; his mouth and his fingers, his heat, his overwhelming desire.

“Yuuri,” he groans, reaching out to push his hands into Yuuri's hair.

Yuuri has never touched him like this before, and it’s new and raw, fits and starts. Victor gasps once, throwing his head back, and then tenses, waiting for Yuuri to find the way again. A winding road, a winding clock, tense and twisting. Yuuri’s mouth is hot and liquid, scarcely moving as he presses in, and Victor pulses his hips up with a restrained jerk, urging him on.

“Good,” Victor gasps. “Good — I like — oh, _Yuuri_ — ”

He's weightless for a moment, suspended in open space. Relieved of the weight of guidance, the responsibility of pace or prudence. Yuuri’s body is his only anchor, his seeking fingers and warm, enclosing mouth, and Victor pulls his hair, heedless, straining up into the air.

And then Yuuri withdraws, panting. “Victor, is this enough? I need — I want — ”

Victor draws in a long, steadying breath and opens his eyes, coming slowly, finally, back down to earth. He cups Yuuri’s face and pulls him up his body, until they're close again. 

“Yes,” he says, softly. The word catches in his throat. “It's enough.”

He kisses Yuuri, and then he helps him, opening the packet and stroking him slick after. Yuuri keeps kissing him, hands restless over his shoulders and face, breathing hard. Victor’s senses are full of Yuuri again, the tuning energy of their bodies together, and when at last Yuuri pushes against him Victor feels it in every part of his body, sweet and yearning and right.

“There,” he gasps, palms on Yuuri’s cheeks. Yuuri flushes and hitches his hips again, deeper, his mouth falling open. Victor groans, overwhelmed. Slick and sliding and full, and his Yuuri above him, bending down to bite at his collar bone.

“ _Victor_ ,” Yuuri moans, against his skin. His hands are braced on Victor’s shoulders and Victor can feel the heat of them, radiant. He moves deeper. Victor takes him in, letting go his own resistance with airy, ardent sighs. Letting himself be parted, made new. Yuuri’s always been a surprising presence in his life and this is no different; changing everything, changing nothing, giving Victor back to himself.

Yuuri pauses, his head dropped against Victor’s, hair brushing Victor’s nose. His shoulders shake, and then he lifts up to look at Victor in the darkness.

“I want so much,” he whispers.

“Take it,” Victor says, and arches to kiss him.

They learn this rhythm together. Yuuri moves to plant his hands on the mattress, anchors for the slow, strong motion of his hips. Victor, taller, spreads the plain of his body beneath. He holds Yuuri’s face again, beloved, and cradles him close, legs clasped around his waist.

“Oh,” Yuuri pants, biting his lip on a fierce moan. His amber eyes are as large and light as Victor’s ever seen them, glazed with with focus and want, and then he shuts them with another gasp.

“Yes,” Victor says, urging him on with his words, his caressing hands. He wants to see what Yuuri will do, set free from rote and routine. His actions neither prescribed nor proscribed, only described by the curving parabolas of his body, moving above and inside Victor. 

And oh, Victor _feels_ it. 

Real, real, grounding and surrounding. Yuuri says something, guttural, low, and his face is so warm beneath Victor’s hands. His motions are muscular and deep, rocking, and Victor feels all his breathless need, the pounding pace of his heart. Yuuri likes to go slow when Victor wants fast, teasing him, but tonight it's Victor calling the halt, pressing his legs to Yuuri’s sides, holding him still. 

When Yuuri opens his eyes to look at Victor it's hesitant, lashes trembling and cheeks flushed. Victor strokes his hair, brushing it back.

“I love you,” Victor says, simply.

He says it a dozen times a day, in Yuuri’s ear in the kitchen and at the changing room at the rink, cheerfully over breakfast and softly at night. He likes to trace it in Japanese on the bathroom mirror, there for Yuuri to find in the steam. It's easy to say, and easy to do, as if he had years of _I love you_ s saved up, waiting. 

Victor’s learned that love is an action, not a word. Still he says it, because to him it makes it real.

Yuuri is breathless, above him. Victor can feel the thrum of his strained desire and the heat of his skin, damp to the touch. Victor loves and he loves and he speaks it aloud, again.

“I love you,” he says in English, their shared tongue, the words square and plain and solid. Enough to build a life on, a future; enough to hold the weight of them both. “I love you,” he says, in Japanese, for Yuuri. “I love you,” he says in Russian, for himself.

Yuuri kisses him before he can say it in French. “Show-off,” he whispers, against Victor’s mouth, and begins to move again.

It’s so good. Yuuri arches his back, leaning in, hips and shoulders working hard. Victor smiles to see his open-mouthed pleasure, and revels in the new, bright feeling, seeing Yuuri discover this for himself; a swivel, a pulse, a steady beat. Angles and arcs, testing, until Victor groans, piercing pleasure threading through him. Yuuri smiles then and slows, bending to his work. He's the tide, the unsettled sea, and Victor is the shifting sand beneath his gravity, molding to his desire. 

This is breathless, new; hot and aching and close; to let Yuuri touch him this way, deep and intimate. Victor had forgotten the moment of shared purpose, desires melding into one. Yuuri’s hot breath and Victor’s tilting hips, the sharp need between them a singular driving force. The heat builds, hammer and tongs, and Victor braces against the impact of completion.

“Victor,” Yuuri groans, desperation in his voice. Victor throws his head back on the pillow and Yuuri kisses his neck, fierce and stinging, until Victor gasps at the heated pull of his mouth. He holds out a moment longer, but he’s filled and touched and seen, and it's so sweet and overwhelming when the last of his control slips away, shudders passing through his body.

“My Victor,” Yuuri murmurs, his lips gentle after. 

Victor pulls Yuuri closer to him, breathing hard, loving the warm dampness between them. Joy fills him, at Yuuri’s presence and his soft panting mouth. Victor kisses it, twice. “My _Yuuri_ ,” he sighs, echoing. 

Yuuri mouths along the line of his jaw softly, belying the throb of tension in him, his held breath. Through his pleasant fog Victor thinks of how often he's seen Yuuri this way, holding out against what he wants until his body aches, sweat-damp and straining with suppressed desire. How often it's been Victor himself that Yuuri resists.

He wants them both to win, suddenly. For the struggles of the world to diminish in this room. To be at Yuuri’s side, not as competitor or mentor or thing to be won. To love, to build something strong and deep and real.

“Yuuri,” he says, and he's surprised to hear tears in it.

Yuuri raises his head, his eyes wide. They're gentle, vulnerable, and as full of water as Victor’s voice. It comes to Victor that he's never truly asked anything of Yuuri for himself, never been open in this way. Never wanted, only waited, for Yuuri to find his own way forward, becoming so brilliant Victor can hardly look at him sometimes.

Now Yuuri leans in to kiss him, small and quiet. “Ask me,” he whispers. “Ask me and I will, Victor. Anything.”

Victor gathers in a breath. “I want you,” he says. “Inside me, Yuuri, please. Pozhaluista.”

He draws Yuuri closer, his hands trembling. This kiss isn't quiet; it's louder than all the words he says every day, and just as true.

Yuuri lets himself come undone. Victor feels it in the way he moves, quick and urgent, and in his short harsh breaths. They watch each other, Yuuri’s eyes still wide until at last he clenches them closed, his mouth still open and wanting. He moans, soft, and Victor’s heart aches to see him give this surrender. Victor breathes his air; breathes, _please_. The world is Yuuri and Victor holds him up, hands on his face and love on his lips.

The tide washes in, breaking over them. Yuuri lies with his head on Victor’s shoulder, breathing in counterpoint to the rise of Victor’s chest. Fading pulses of heat echo between them, everywhere they touch. Victor feels still, sculpted, his body a resting harbor for Yuuri, arms curved around his back.

“I don't think it's about hard work,” Yuuri says, against Victor’s throat.

“What?” Victor asks, distantly.

“The fairytale. I don't think it's really about work, or red sails either.”

“Oh?” It's hard to think, here on the drifting edge of sleep, but Victor feels this is important, as if everything else around them is hushed, listening.

Yuuri raises his head. His hair is rumpled from Victor’s touches, and his eyes and cheeks are bright, like he's just finished a performance, or about to begin one. _Don't take your eyes off me_ he said once, months ago, and Victor never has.

“I think it's about love,” Yuuri says, licking his lips. His voice is hoarse but clear. “About loving someone you hardly know, or only the idea of them. About how a dream of love can still be enough.”

Victor’s very still now, awake, looking at Yuuri. “A dream?”

Warmth sweeps over Yuuri’s face; a tender, affectionate smile. “A dream that comes true,” he says. “With a lot of hard work.”

“I'm hard work, am I?” Victor says.

The smile becomes a low, rippling laugh. “Who says I'm talking about you, show-off,” Yuuri says, but he's already tipping his head down into a kiss.

Victor slides his hands up the cool slope of Yuuri’s back, into the softness of his hair again. They've both worked, and they've both dreamed, and they've made something, together. Bridged their differences, smoothed down the sharp edges of the places where they're the same, found their own tentative, glorious way into a fairytale. Victor isn't sure if he is prince or beloved, red sails against the sky or waiting on the shore, but he has love, solid and bright, and it's the steadiest, surest thing he's known.

**Author's Note:**

> You can read more about the Scarlet Sails festival and watch video [here](https://www.travelallrussia.com/blog/scarlet-sails-st-petersburg). I think it's exactly the sort of over the top spectacle Victor Nikiforov would love.
> 
> The original _Scarlet Sails_ short story is also [available to read online](http://www.sennaya.com/alye_parusa_eng.html), and I really enjoyed it. To be honest, it doesn't really line up at all with the basis of the festival or communist principles, but is an observant and piquant little story. 
> 
> Track listing for the playlist, if you'd rather put it into Spotify:  
> 1\. Holocene - Bon Iver  
> 2\. Underwater - Josh Radin  
> 3\. Tokyo - The Books  
> 4\. All of Me Wants All of You - Sufjan Stevens  
> 5\. Les Abeilles - Rupa and the April Fishes  
> 6\. River - Bishop Briggs  
> 7\. Youth - Daughter  
> 8\. Piano Concerto No 2 in C, Adagio - Sergei Rachmoninov  
> 9\. July Flame - Laura Veirs  
> 10\. No Hard Feelings - Avett Brothers
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [sophia-helix](http://sophia-helix.tumblr.com)


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